


buried in the white

by crickets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-17
Updated: 2007-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter. Stranded. Impala. First.</p>
            </blockquote>





	buried in the white

**Author's Note:**

> [Original post](http://crickets.livejournal.com/68783.html).

So he gives in.

 

That's how all this happens, anyway.

 

All these road nights, night roads, _whatever_, trickling from his cup - the one that's never quite full enough, no matter what (_who_) he stuffs inside its hollow.

 

It's winter (_fucking snow_) as they draw closer to some nameless town, and Sam’s warm next to him in the impala, like normal - _like always_. But it’s different now. Because _now_ they’re running out of time, and that's never seemed real before.

 

They're stranded. (_Always have been, though._)

 

The giving in happens in one direction or another – north or south, east or west, sideways or crooked, inside-out or backwards. It doesn't matter except for that it happens, icy wind pounding at the windows, cold leather at their backs. And as this one door opens, all the rest close, because this is the one choice that changes who Dean _is_, who _they_ are.

 

It's not like anything ever before, and it's not slow or fast, or even really real. Because words catch inside their throats, trapped in some invisible net that filters out the truth of the thing – the thing that is them, so dark and cold, but warm when wrapped together, lunging and shoving, memories and pain, hips and flesh and scars and limbs, and then sharp grunts and they barely even got started.

 

So it’s finished. And after it’s done, everything else is like nails on a chalkboard, screaming their disgrace.

 

They’re no longer a part of this place that they protect - out there buried in the white.

 

Sun comes again, and they dig out the impala, dust off their weapons, shiny and sharp, and all those still-trapped words are swallowed down and kept, like treasures or secrets or both, and off they go to save another life, another soul, another town, in this very world where they don’t belong.

_-fin_


End file.
